


A Well, a Spell and a Fare Thee Well

by archea2



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Crossover with any canon you have any indication I like, Edmund Pevensie's Golden Age Exploits, First Kiss, Hopeful Ending, Humor, M/M, Same-Sex Crossover Ships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 17:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20313613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archea2/pseuds/archea2
Summary: Never accept a Portkey from a Prewett, still less an old and battered watch, if you plan to end up in the right place at the right time....Or wait. Perhaps you should.





	A Well, a Spell and a Fare Thee Well

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aurilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/gifts).

> Dear Aurilly,
> 
> A too-rushed treat, like the Portkey. Here's hoping the crossover pleases you, ditto the hopeful ending. 
> 
> (I really tried to have them shag in the goddamn well, but either Tash or Aslan wouldn't let me.)

This is the story of a brief encounter that took place between land and water, Calormen and Shadowland, nice young man and ditto. It begins, as befits a tale of brevity, with a shortcut.

“I say,” Newt said, eyeing the old and battered watch somewhat cautiously. It had been delivered to him by the latest arrival at Portkey Office, a young clerk with a twinkle and a half in his eye. The clerk’s name was Freddie Prewett, and, while a transient protagonist himself, his name may be a clue that he was (a) an honourable young man, and (b) somewhat careless in his dealings with magical objects.

“I say, are you sure this will take me to Iran?”

“I’d like to see it _ not _ try! Only, it’s a bit outside the pal for us pen-pushers, so I’ve had to scrounge on the time settings. You get one hour. Will that be enough?”

“Yes, if you got the coordinates right. The Simurgh lands on Mount Aborz once a century at dawn, and if I can interview -”

But already Freddie had clapped the watch into his hand, and the magic was upon Newt, seizing him by the scruff of his neck before it dive-and-rolled him across space immaterial, until his feet met again with solidity. When he trusted himself to open his eyes, he was standing on a… mountain, he told himself firmly. If so, the Iranian lore had been more than kind with Arboz, which looked rather like a hill, and, from Newt's elevated viewpoint, like an island. Still, there _ was _ a… shrine? temple? facing him, the pinnacle of which _ was _ topped with a bird's effigy. Newt sent a mental thanksgiving Freddie’s way and stepped in.

The… shrine? temple? was empty. Yet it hardly felt holy. It was lined inside out with the blackest marble, and its candles, trailing a mixed scent of camphor and ambergris, had long lost their fight to the chiaroscuro. Newt, uncertain whether the Simurgh would manifest on its dome or in its hall, took another step. 

“_Salām_?” he called out politely. The camphor tickled his throat, and he had to pause and chase it with a cough. “Er… _ Salām, sobh bekheir? _Hullo and good morning?”

Much to his surprise, he was greeted with a burst of laughter, which seemed to rise from the ground.

“And good morrow to you, friend! How strange, that I should receive courtesy in such a place. My best wishes for the day, though in order to enjoy it, you may want to look down first.”

“Oh,” Newt said.

He did as told, and jumped back. There was a well carved in the ground: large enough to host a mischief of Nifflers, deeper than a Demiguise’s full height. And inside this hole, standing against the curved black wall with his back straight and his arms crossed, was a young man. He couldn’t be a day over twenty-four, Newt’s age, and like Newt he was fair of hair. His dress code, however, was much superior. Newt had gone for casual, this being the Iranian summer, and was mostly wearing linen, a pair of suspenders and Theseus’s old boater. The young man in the cistern wore a flowing blue tunic, obviously made of silk, and a silver cap set with a jewel so bright it made his face visible. The face was fresh, boyish even, but it was freshly firm - it came with a warning that the speaker would take no nonsense and grant even less.

Still, there was a crease to the mouth that spoke of humour, too, and gentleness. Newt, never at his best in society, felt his unease melt away. 

“I say, d’you need a hand?” he asked, a reflex born of battling so many traps, gins, snares and like contraptions. “I’ll be glad to help. How the heck did you end up - that is, down - here? Unless you’re, er, meditating or pondering or something? What’s your - sorry, bit of a babbler here. Let me introduce myself. I'm Newt Scamander.”

The young man did not respond at once. He looked enthralled by Newt’s manner of speech; frowning, not from anger, but in the way of one being soft-tickled by a memory that won’t say its name, or trying to nail a word at the tip of his tongue. After a while, he started and, smiling, said, “Edmund of Narnia. Well, they do say I’m of a sound mind at council, but i’d as lief be sound on plain ground. You wouldn’t happen to have a rope, sir, would you?”

Newt only shook his head before Apparating next to Edmund. Edmund, half-foregoing his regal poise, scuttled back. 

“What devilry is this? Who are you?”

Ah. A Muggle then, though his garb had certainly deceived Newt. “Um,” he said diplomatically, while fishing for the wand stuck diagonally in his suspenders. He was of two minds about Obliviating Edmund prior to Side-Apparating him, but the shock would at least ensure that Edmund stayed quiet, instead of splicing more than his silver bonnet. "All right now, just a dash of magic. White magic, so don't panick. No, really, don't."

Too late. Edmund's eyes were saucer-wide, and Newt heard him mutter “Not _ again_!”

Oh. A Muggle who knew about wizards, but, from the stamp of horror and resolve in his face, had found himself at the dark business end of magic. Newt’s heart went out to the young face, suddenly lowered. He had Apparated close enough that he could watch the blush spread on Edmund’s face, its warmth and onset tangible, betraying Edmund’s deep-set… what was the emotion? It didn’t look like fear. Shame, rather - had Edmund suffered past humiliation at some wizard’s hands? It happened. It happened too often and grievously enough these days, even with Grindelwald under lock. 

“It’s all right,” he said. He was careful to gentle his voice, the premise to gentling his way to a hurt creature. “I know now, I’d never come to you as an enemy.”

“You come with a sorcerer’s wand.” Edmund’s voice was rising again. “Take it and do your worst. But if you have Corin in thrall, then, by the Lion’s mane! you had better treat him right.”

“Oh, _ please_.” Newt hadn’t meant to sound peeved, but really, Edmund might as well have spoken gibberish. “I’m really not here to squabble. Here, take my hand. I’ll Apparate us out in a jiffy, and then -”

But then, something very strange happened. Try as he might, Newt was stuck. He couldn't move them an inch, and this to him was quite vexing. For Apparating was Newt's second forte, the one physical feat he'd honed (partly to rile Theseus), and now the hang of it was quite gone. He was, to speak plainly, grounded. And the temple was empty. And Edmund was…

… Edmund, quite unpredictably, was chuckling.

“Well, Sir Wizard. Whatever else you be, it seems you are still apprenticed to your craft.”

Held at midpoint between relief and peeve, Newt chose relief. His laughter rose in turn. The dawn, inching past the temple’s glass windows, was lightening his mood.

“I might as well be. I was expelled from school, y’know?”

“Ah. Boarding-school?” And Edmund started, as if he’d just caught himself speaking a rude word in a foreign language. 

But Newt was nodding.

“It was… not very… pleasant? I was fairly isolated, and then I thought I'd made a friend but… stuff happened. And I really didn’t mean it for anyone to get harmed, seriously harmed, but when they did I knew I had to take the blame. Oh dear. I’m not making much sense, am I?”

“Verily,” Edmund said, “you are.”

There was a pause, and then, of one accord, they looked down at their hands - still joined. 

“Maybe we got on the wrong footing,” Newt said. “Let’s try this again.” He clasped the hand warmer. “Newt.”

“Ed,” Edmund said. “Well, if we’re clearing this up… what did you mean, you knew _ now _ you’d be a friend to me?”

Newt smiled, oblivious to the dawn lighting up his face like a Lumos. There was something else, something inside of him, that felt more radiant.

“The way you said Lion, with a capital L. I could hear it. I do it too, you see, with creatures great and small - and not many people do.”

* * *

The next quarter of an hour was spent sitting, two lanky pairs of legs outstretched, while Newt deplored that his unwizardlike state precluded a cushioning charm. Yet for all that their breeches lacked comfort (Ed), their hearts were merry, and likewise their chatter. 

Ed told Newt how he’d been searching for that young truant, Prince Corin, which had led him astray from his companions in the small hours, when Ed made a valiant but misguided bid for the Temple of Tash. Still, he felt pretty sure one of them would come looking for him, or the youngling, any time soon; if not, some priest or other would, and would know better than to sacrifice the Tisroc’s guest. Meanwhile, he was quite enjoying himself.

Newt told Ed (at length) about fantastic beasts and the book he’d been commissioned about them, hence _his_ search for the Simurgh, bird of beauty and benevolence.

“Hum,” said Ed, looking up at the vaulted ceiling and its design of a bird. So far, so good, but the bird had four arms and looked like a dissipated vulture. “Methinks a benevolent god would not greet its devotees with a man-trap.”

He was more intrigued by Newt’s Portkey, and begged leave to hold the battered old watch before he gave it back. It did, he said, kindle a misty image, also tinged with benevolence, of a wise old man with cheeks as ruddy as apples and a riot of white hair. Mayhaps Father Christmas, who had visited his siblings long ago with a wealth of magic gifts. And would it send Newt back? When? So soon! Would Newt use his magic to visit him in Narnia, then, where they could roam the sea-coast and the heath, and Newt could hold parley with beasts that talked and were honoured for their charm and wisdom? Beavers! Ravens! Fauns! There was a Faun just now, keeping his lady sister company - and, hopefully, talking her out of ruining her life with a match most foul.

“Oh,” said Newt, looking away. Only recently had Theseus started dropping hints of dating “a common friend”. His brother's anxious gaze had belied his tone, letting Newt guess that Theseus was - untypically - asking for Newt’s blessing, or pardon, or both. Instead, Newt had used his book as a Cloak of Invisibility, making excuse after bland excuse to shun them. He felt…

He felt a rustle of silk as Ed turned to face him. And their gazes felt for each other, until Ed had and held his, and Newt fought the impulse to shift his eyes.

“Newt, was is it? Why dost look so sad?”

Newt only dimly registered the sympathy _ thou_. Edmund’s face, seen at close quarters, made it impossible to think; only to tell the truth.

“I’m a coward.” He swallowed, painfully, against the next words. “I run away.”

“Forsooth, no. No coward would undertake such a quest, into such far and foreign lands, as you do. Is it pain of love that you flee?”

Was it? He had cherished Leta; but, in retrospect, only because she had accepted him; had let him turn her into a confidant, with no thought of returning the favour because it was enough that she shared his whims and values. He had never bothered to find out what _ she _ liked or valued, before her anger took precedence on her love for him. There had been something childish in their idyl, but Newt was beginning to suspect that it was less a matter of “us _ contra mundum _” and more his own fault for loving neither wisely nor too well.

“For if you do,” Ed said simply, “then would I ease your pain with all my heart.”

This, Newt realized. This was the pluck he’d lacked - to speak these words to Leta when she’d first come to him, another lost child. Perhaps Theseus had, even though he had only known Leta for months. Perhaps it was time for Newt to earn his own badge of courage.

But just as he was bracing himself, a new presence made itself known. A pitter of paws; then a plumper sound, as something black and shiny launched itself down the well and dropped on all fours. Next thing he knew, Ed’s silver cap was suddenly alive, spinning on his head, and Ed was saying “Mercy, what is this? A Mole, so far east of Narnia?”

“Merlin!” Newt said, and threw himself to the ground. The cap had leapt from Ed’s head and was making a vain if wholehearted attempt to scuttle up the wall. Newt caught it in both hands and lifted the silver dome. The Eastern Niffler peeked back, the picture of innocence.

“Another scapegrace,” he told Ed. “But if you will spare your hat, and I toss him up and over the wall, chances are he will be seen and your friends directed to come here.”

“What about you?” Ed said, dismissing the cap with a wave. “For, there’s the rub - if this place be foe to magic, how will you fly back?”

Newt did not answer at once. He took a good hold of the Niffler’s scruff between his thumb and fingers and tossed him up in a smart curve, all the way above the cistern’s rim. Another plump sound, followed by a chitter of righteous indignation, told him that the hat-bearer had made it outside the Temple.

“I’d have to face up,” he said, half for himself. “I’d have to - make a choice.”

“Then learn from me,” Ed murmured. “Learn from my error, and choose from the heart.”

..._ Benevolent and beautiful_, and Newt, raised by his mother to bow to beauty and, once it bowed back, stroke its head, moved his hand to the strong young face. He felt Ed's mouth, felt its courtly request, drowned by another hot tide of blood in his ears; and he made his choice. He turned up his face and kissed, or perhaps was kissed, to the tide’s song. It was Newt's first adult kiss, to stay with him and resurface whenever he flew one of his winged companions. Something of Narnia passed into the kiss, and months later, when he bought a suitcase and planned the glens, the hills, the limpid pools for his creatures to roam in as they liked, it was as if some blueprint of Narnia had been stamped in him with that first kiss.

Years later, even, upon choosing a side - it could be that Newt let the kiss steer him.

“I choose...”

But time waits for no man, be he King or wizard. As Newt spoke, two things happened. Voices filled the space above them, shouting “Your Highness! My Lord Edmund!”. At the same time the old watch began to glow, imparting to Newt the harsh tug of magic. Newt cried out, and so, he thought, did Ed, but by the end of the cry, the walls around him were square - were whitewashed - were Ministry walls again, with Freddie Prewett beaming at him.

* * *

He searched for Ed, as he travelled to more and merrier lands. He never stopped searching.

But Narnia eluded Newt. None of his books could enlighten him, and his writing to Dumbledore for permission to consult Hogwarts’s library only got him a cryptic “If now’s not the time, my dear boy, here may not be the place”.

More time flew, and Newt found himself in wizarding New York, an extempore champion of justice.

  
He hadn’t expected a _ lion _ to show up and create enough of a diversion to rescue him from the No-Maj police. But it did, and as it did the Lion turned its majestic head toward him and a Voice broke into speech, heard by Newt alone. And what the Voice said, Newt carried with him as a promise, and this was: “There are many doors to my Country, Son of Adam.”


End file.
